Fashion Crime
by Redlance-ck
Summary: Brooke has a disturbing revelation. Sam/Brooke


**Disclaimer: **Characters belong to Ryan Murphy, I'm just borrowing them so they can do my bidding for a while. 

**A/N:** Okay, this was… random. boomwizard prompted, I asked if I could steal, she said yes.. This is her fault. And it's for her. =D Hasn't been beta read cuz… that doesn't usually happen. XD

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Since Sam had come out, few things had changed. Nicole's average insult output was slightly higher, Jane was over-exuberantly accepting of anything brought up in connection with the gayness, and Brooke... well, the only thing that had changed with Brooke was that she sometimes now had to triple her efforts to keep her hands off the recently de-closeted reporter.

"Morning." Sam said cheerfully, waltzing in the kitchen in anticipation of breakfast. Brooke's toast caught in her throat and her eyes bulged comically when she lifted them from the magazine before her.

"Are you wearing **flannel**?" She managed to choke past the lodged piece of food, coughing a few times once the question was out.

"Yes." Sam glanced at her and raised an eyebrow. "And you can stop looking at me like I'm a walking stereotype." When Brooke did nothing but continue to stare, she rolled her eyes and ducked into the fridge to retrieve a grapefruit. "Flannel is the preferred choice of button shirt for many people, not just lesbians, Brooke's. It's comfy, warm, usually brightly coloured. Have you ever seen any of the goth kids wearing flannel? No. And do you know why? Flannel is the happy material." She closed the door to find Brooke worrying her lower lip and **still **staring. "Maybe that's why it's associated with the homosexual community. I mean, gay literally means happy. But don't try to change the subject." Brooke was pretty sure she hadn't said anything. "I resent you instantly making a connection between my newfound sexual identity and the clothes I chose to wear. It doesn't matter that you didn't outright say it, because that's what everyone is going to think, and I won't-"

"_I have no idea what she's talking about. Like, I know her lips are moving, but I'm too distraught to make out the words. She's wearing flannel. Full on, red and black __**flannel**__. And I have never wanted to jump her so bad in my life. Oh god, this can't be happening. I can't find this look attractive. As if coming out won't do enough damage to my reputation, if it somehow ever gets out that I find flannel sexy, my social status will be well and truly shattered. But... oh god, I just want to rip it open and listen for buttons landing on all sides of the room."_

"Are you even listening to me?"

"_Or maybe she could leave it on. Just the shirt."_

"Brooke?"

"_When exactly did I turn into a fashion disaster? Have I always had an appalling affinity for flannel? Or just Sam in flannel? If I don't get out of this room, I'm going to jump her."_

"You're not, are you?" Brooke baulked, remainder of her toast dropping from her hand to her plate.

"What? No! Wait, not what? What am I not doing?" She asked in a panic, eyes wide again. Sam ran her fingers through her hair and folded her arms across her chest.

"Listening." Sam said, pointedly annunciating each syllable and giving Brooke a half smug, half pissed look that, in all honesty, was not helping the blonde's flustered state.

"I was!" She protested, indignant, but then thought better. "I mean, I was... but then... I stopped." Sam rolled her eyes.

"I'm glad my issues are so important to you."

"The flannel distracted me!" Brooke threw her hands into the air, unable to hold it in any longer. The glance that was thrown in her direction told her that Sam had taken that particular comment the completely wrong way. "Not in a 'oh, here's comes the local lesbian' way." Her tone was miserable and she dropped her head into her hands, in the hopes that her next statement would be muffled enough to remove any embarrassment. It was, but that also meant Sam couldn't hear her.

"What?" Brooke huffed and parted her hands to speak through the gap, fingers still touching her forehead.

"I said, you look hot." She could have just said that Sam looked good, that flannel didn't make her look butch, but instead hugged curves Brooke spent most of her time trying to look away from, forcing her attention to them. Okay, maybe she would have left off that last part, but the butch bit? She could have said that. But no, she'd used the 'h' word, like the should-be-repulsive flannel was possessing her. Which would actually explain a lot. And when she dropped her hands to figure out why there was a sudden pause of silence - maybe Brooke's former thoughts that flannel was bad and wrong was being proven, and Sam's shirt was now trying to suffocate her, thus preventing her from speaking - she was met by the single sexiest smirk she'd ever seen.

And as it turned out, the biggest change was Brooke's. Because never in a million years would she have considered **flannel **to be sexy before Sam had decided to butch it up. God, Nicole was going to kill her.


End file.
